


Shady Glen

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Cheeseburgers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 11:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11312907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Napoleon is not impressed with Illya's choice of restaurants.





	Shady Glen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LiveJournal's Section7MFU - Short Affair Challenge  
> Prompts: traffic / green

Illya turned left against the traffic on Middle Turnpike East and slipped the Charger into a space in the parking lot.

Napoleon peered out the windscreen at a modest building of white-washed brick. The name Shady Glen was spelled out in curving letters beneath the front gable. “Coffee break?”

“Dinner,” Illya said and exited the car.

Napoleon followed reluctantly. “I thought we were going to eat in the city.”

“That is a two hour drive, and I am hungry now.” Illya crossed to the entrance and held open the door. “Come. I will buy.”

Napoleon pointed to Illya’s polo shirt as he passed. “Are you sure they’ll let you in without a tie?”

Rolling his eyes, Illya brushed past and took a seat at the long Formica counter.  
  
“Drinks at the bar. Good idea,” Napoleon said as he joined him. When his partner stared at the menu board in resolute silence, he swiveled around to survey the entire restaurant. He cocked his head at a mural on the west wall. “If I tell them it’s my birthday, do I get a free sundae?”

Illya flicked his gaze to the painting of children eating ice cream by a strawberry tree. “It is meant to be whimsical.”

“Ah, yes. Whimsy.” He twisted his lips. “That’s the first thing I look for in a fine dining establishment.”

A waitress in a green uniform and white apron approached them on the other side of the counter. Napoleon spun on the stool to face her. “Do you need a few minutes?” she asked, as she set down two waters in small wax-paper cups.

Napoleon smiled. “What’s the _spécialité de la maison_? _”_

The waitress turned wide eyes to Illya. He sighed and said, “Two Bernice Original platters, please.”

She jotted down the order on her pad, then patted Napoleon’s arm. “Don’t worry, mister, you’ll get the hang of it. French is a hard language to master, _ne c’est pas?”_ Her accent was flawless.

Illya chuckled. Napoleon watched her with a grimace as she posted their order for a line cook in bow tie and soda jerk hat. “Must be working her way through college.”

The waitress soon returned with a caddy of condiments in glass jars. “ _Voilà_ ,” she said as she placed it between them. She pointed to each jar in turn. “ _Le ketchup, la moutarde, la relish, les oignons._ ”

Napoleon offered a strained smile. “ _Merci beaucoup._ ”

“ _Bon travail,_ ” she said with an approving nod and left to tend to other customers.

“I like her,” Illya declared. “She shall have a large tip.”

Napoleon lifted the lids of the condiment jars to peer idly inside them. “I take it this is not your first visit to the Shady Nook.”

“Shady Glen.”

“Either way. How did you find this place?”

“Mrs. Waverly recommended it. She likes to bring her grandchildren here.”

“And that sold you on it?”

“Courtesy brought me here the first time.” His eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together as the waitress set down their plates. “This brings me back.”

Napoleon frowned at his heavily-laden plate. He poked at the fries and lifted a slice of tomato with his fork. “Coleslaw? I don’t like coleslaw.”

“Then I will eat it.” Illya took the small bowl and squeezed it next to his own.

Napoleon reached for the cheeseburger from several angles, attempting to surmount its four wings of fried cheese, then dropped his hand to the counter. “Do I eat it, or is it an offensive weapon?”

“You eat it.”

“How exactly?”

“If you look around, you will see that there are several favored methods. I myself prefer a combination of Fold and Tear.”

Illya carefully pulled two golden wings from his burger and put them aside. He removed the top bun and flipped the other wings onto the patty. After applying a few condiments, he restored the bun, then lifted the burger and took an enormous bite. He groaned with satisfaction.

Napoleon watched in fascinated horror as Illya crunched on his mouthful. “How is it?”

Illya swallowed and took a sip of water. “Delicious, as always. Are you going to eat or not?”

“I’m still strategizing.” He eyed the burger thoughtfully, tapping a french fry against his lips.

With a sharp exhalation, Illya reached over and tore off the crispy wings. “The Great Napoleon Solo, bested by a Bernice Original,” he said, placing the cheese on his own plate. “And to think, the Waverly grandchildren manage.”

“Maybe they order hot dogs,” he suggested, then blinked at the golden-winged frankfurter carried past them to a nearby customer. “Who runs this place? The Purple Valley Dairy?”

“Perhaps. Their ice cream is diabolically good.”

“I think you mean whimsically.” Napoleon said, applying condiments with exaggerated dignity. “Do they fry that as well?”

“If only,” Illya said and crunched into a spare wing of cheese.

Napoleon lifted his burger and sighed. “And to think we could have had prime rib.”

Illya dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “Good Evening, Mrs. Waverly,” he said, spinning toward the entrance.

Napoleon immediately took a large bite of his burger. He turned, struggling to swallow, and found no one there. He glared at his partner, who was munching innocently on a french fry. An attempt to speak induced a fit of coughing, and he grabbed his cup of water.

“Diabolical,” Napoleon gasped, fixing him with a watery, resentful gaze.

Illya shook his head and point a fry at the mural. “Whimsical.”


End file.
